The Music of Death
by DarkSp'rit
Summary: Raoul refused to listen to Christine at the graveyard, and so instead of walking away, he slew the Phantom of the Opera - but in doing so, he loses her love forever - and makes a mistake which costs him his sanity. After all, ghosts never truly die...EC
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi everyone!**

**So basically in this fanfic, Raoul kills the Phantom instead of listening to Christine and walking away - but can you really kill a ghost...?**

**I really hope you enjoy this - its my first fanfiction, so reviews would be really nice - if you don't really like it, then tell me!**

**So here goes, and again, I hope its enjoyable!**

* * *

Crystalline flakes of icy snow drift around the cemetery, carried by the cold, biting breeze. Stone angels stand proudly, guarding the spirits of the wandering dead as the whispers of long-forgotten pasts entwine with the chilling wind.

The Vicomte de Chagny ignores the frozen beauty around him, as he stares into the calm emerald green orbs of the masked man at his feet.

_It is all over, now_, the man's eyes seem to be saying. The Vicomte agrees mentally, as he draws back his sword-arm to destroy the monster lying defenceless on the ground.

"Raoul…no!"

He turns his head dully, to the brunette girl standing behind him, her eyes wide with disbelief, slim pale hand outstretched.

"Christine, I am going to end this. Now."

He turns away from her, and raises the sword once again. The emerald eyes close, as if in acceptance, and the side of the face not covered by the mask twists in grim amusement.

_Weep for the man who has fallen so far..._

_Suffer for the pain of the twisted genius..._

Crimson blood splatters out, turning the pure white snow to a washed-out red. The hand that had been about to pull his arm from its path drops limply, and he hears the involuntary gasp of pain that escapes her.

"Christine…" he murmurs, rotating to face his fiancé.

She stands; eyes clenched shut, body rigid. Locks of curly brown hair fall over her shoulders in disordered chaos.

"Christine…?"

"Leave." One word, spoken softly, but clearly. There is no malice, no viciousness, nor anger or sorrow in her voice.

The voice is dead, like the man who still bleeds onto the snow-coated ground.

"But…"

She opens her brilliant blue eyes and stares at him steadily. He bites his lip, and gives in. Stepping past her, his shoulder barely brushes hers.

He does not turn to see her bend down to the still-warm corpse. When he mounts the horse, he does not look back as the first tears begin to fall silently down her face.

_Why?_

He doesn't need to.

* * *

The horse races back to the Opera House, spurred on by the pain and death it has left behind. The Vicomte dismounts, not bothering to wait for the animal to be led to its stable. Striding to the manager's office, he knocks and enters without waiting to be asked in.

"Ah…Vicomte…!?" The managers and Madame Giry look up in surprise at the bleeding nobleman, gleaming weapon dulled by a rusty crimson liquid.

Raoul drops the bloodstained sword on the floor in front of them

"The Phantom of the Opera is dead."

* * *

"_The Phantom of the Opera is dead…"_

"_The Opera Ghost is gone…"_

"_Did you hear? The Vicomte killed him…!"_

"_That can't be right – ghosts don't die…"_

"_She was there, wasn't she...?"_

"_She?"_

"_Christine Daaé, of course…!"_

She walks through the corridors, blue cloak fluttering in her wake, deaf to the hushed murmurings around her.

"Christine!"

_Christine._

_Her name._

_Of course…_

She turns, to see her blonde friend rush to her side.

"Did you hear, Christine? The Phantom of the Opera is dead!"

Of course, she has heard – her head moves slightly in acknowledgment.

"Oh…" Unnerved by the vacant expression in Christine's azhure eyes, Meg uneasily moves away.

"Well, I've got to go – or I'll be late for the dance rehearsals. I'll speak to you later, Christine!"

By the time the dancer's footsteps have faded away from earshot, Christine has already forgotten their conversation, and her feet have taken her to the door of her dressing-room.

Slowly, she opens the door, stepping inside.

Nothing has changed – _nor should it have_, she thinks in vague surprise.

She reaches out to brush the large mirror slightly with the backs of her fingers.

"Angel…" she sighs, not so much as a word as a coherent exhalation.

"Christine, you have rehearsals."

Surprised from her reverie, she turns to see Madame Giry's head from around the half-closed door. Another softer sigh escapes her.

"I am coming," she says, dropping her cloak to the table, and leaving the room.

The door closes.

Within the room, nothing moves.

Not the small bugs, nor the rats in the tunnel behind the mirror.

Everything seems to be holding its breath…

Waiting…

_Waiting…_

_And finally…_

"_Christine…"_

The silence has broken.

* * *

**So...what did you think?**

**PLEASE tell me what you thought!!! And if you think I should continue - I really want to know if this fic is worth continuing!!**

**Thanks again for reading!**

**DarkSp'rit**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **

**I'd just like to say "thank you" to everyone who reviewed - you guys rock!**

**SO...this chapter...**

**It didn't turn out the way it was meant to, and I'm half-afraid that its very bad - please, tell me it isn't...!!**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!!**

**Good Reading! ^^**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

_She is underground again, the white mask but a few metres from where she is sprawled, undignified, on the cold ground. His harsh cries of heartbreaking agony match the distortedness of the horrid face that she has so foolishly – oh, so foolishly – revealed._

"_Damn you! Curse you…!" his voice fades, and he begins to prowl around the large cavern. The fear has faded into a dull ache; she has recalled this moment so many times before, all that is left within her is a dull apprehension._

"_I gave you your music, Christine…"_

_She suddenly feels a new stab of fear – a sense that something has gone wrong…_

_He laughs softly – a laugh containing no mirth…a laugh of insanity…_

"_I gave you your music, Christine – and now, when I ask for repayment, I find you lacking…"_

_The feeling of wrongness grows within her, a dark knot of destiny warped, of consequences that should never have come to pass…_

"_So is it not fitting, then, after your precious Vicomte destroyed me so, that _you _repay his debt?"_

_Dead? She does not understand – how can he be standing before her, if he is…_

A graveyard.

A swordfight.

Crimson blood dying the pure white snow a dull red…

_He reaches out his hand to her, and for a moment she believes that he intends to pull her to her feet._

_But he does not – his arm remains extended, and his blazing eyes burn like emeralds in the deep-sockets, illuminating the distortion of his face._

"_I curse you, Christine Daaé." His tone is expressionless, though the green orbs reveal the true depth of his emotion._

"_May all who hear you sing shudder and weep at the cruelty and harshness that your voice reveals your soul to be..."_

_She opens her mouth to protest – and finds, to her horror, that speech is impossible. He watches with a twisted amusement her pitiful attempts to force sound from her throat._

"_I take back my music, Christine Daaé…"_

She sits up, sweat coating her skin, tears trickling down her damp face. Leaping to her feet, she runs to the full-length mirror as fast as she is able to, examining her features carefully.

"I…am…Christine…Daaé…" she whispers. She can speak.

Relief hits her in waves, forcing her to her knees. Her laughter mingles with her tears, bordering on hysteria.

Eventually, she garners the energy to stand, and she eyes herself in the glass in quiet joy.

"It was all a dream," she murmurs, and then laughs in delight.

_Only a dream…_

Suddenly, the door opens, and she whirls around in sudden fright – before realising that it is only Meg.

"Oh…!"

Meg frowns in confusion.

"Are you alright, Christine? Ah – you've been crying!" She runs to her friend's side, but the curly-haired brunette turns from her friend.

Too late, she has remembered that there is little to be joyful about.

She forces a smile out.

"I had a bad dream…" Her blonde friend does not look convinced, and so she searches desperately within her mind for some form of diversion.

"Will we…be going to the city today?" she asks finally, recalling the plans they had made just three days before.

"N-no…" Meg stutters – the vacant expression on Christine's face frightens her, but she attempts to retain some semblance of normality. "It's raining – we will have to stay indoors."

_Raining._

Christine almost laughs at the irony.

_Of course._

"We'd better go to breakfast, then – rehearsals are still on this morning," Meg says hesitantly, and Christine nods.

_After all…_

Though the thought of attending rehearsal still frightens her, she tells herself firmly that dreams and reality are two different spheres.

_The angel is dead, and the heavens weep…_

She follows Meg out of the room.

_Two different spheres – but where do they overlap…?_

Silence?

_No…_

A sigh emanates from the mirror.

_When does a dream become reality…?_

_

* * *

_

**So how was it???**

**Review and tell me how it was - and I promise that next chapter will be better...!!**

**DarkSp'rit**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry, but this chapter's really short... and its got random paragraphs with lots of description...**

**Please tell me its not boring...!**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and please review!!**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

_Whispers…_

They echo through the corridors of the labyrinthine Opera House, an intricate tango of lies and truth, fear and glee.

Bouncing off the walls, around the audience seats, captured behind the stage – like infectious insects they leave their traces everywhere. Their bite is gossip, their sting fear.

_And once bitten, once stung…there is no cure…_

Why are we doing this? they ask.

After all, the Phantom is dead…

Why do we rehearse the opera of a dead ghost?

_Why indeed…_

_Why this resurrection of barely-dead fears, smothering of new-fledged hope?_

_Why risk the resurrection of a ghost…?_

"Raoul…"

He continues to gaze at the sullen dancers, even as she walks to stand beside him.

"Raoul, why are we performing Don Juan?"

_Why are we performing the Phantom's opera?_

Turning his head, finally, to look at Christine, the Vicomte raises an eyebrow.

"The man is dead, Christine." She sighs.

_Really…?_

"Raoul, I need to tell you something."

The Vicomte turns back to the stage, the movement of the ballerinas graceful even in their anger. He does not wish to see the sapphire-blue eyes, cold as he knows they must be.

Cold when they gaze upon him, he knows – cold and dead as the once-blooming flower of innocent, youthful love that they once shared.

_Once…_

_No longer._

"Mademoiselle Daaé."

The conductor's voice penetrates their thoughts and Christine slowly steps away, heading towards the stage.

Only then does the nobleman notice – the tenseness of her body, rigidity of her shoulders – her trembling lips, clenched hands…

The music starts.

But the music…it does not emanate from the orchestra pits. The bows, long and slender; the fingers, dancing cunningly across fragile strings or pressing down on the cold, metallic keys of the woodwinds…they move as they should, in time to the soaring, joyful sound of the flute, or the deep, rich bass provided by the cellos and double bass – and yet, the music…

The Vicomte glances quickly at the lavish Box above him.

Box 5.

The Phantom's box.

He stares upwards, imagining the Phantom sitting there but a few months ago; witnessing with satisfaction the triumph of his prodigy – his love…

A white mask shines in the concealing darkness.

The Vicomte's eyes widen.

"Impossible…" he whispers to himself, attempting to tear his gaze from the site of his hallucination – for hallucination it must be…

_Impossible?_

_Do you really believe so…?_

Trapped, he stares transfixed, heedless of the gold-blonde hair fallen across his eyes.

_Listen, Monsieur…_

_Listen to the music…_

_The music of my revenge…_

As if the strings tying him in paralysis were snapped, the Vicomte leaps away in fear, the hissed, lyrical voice resounding in his mind.

Slowly, he turns towards the stage.

And Christine Daaé opens her mouth to sing.

* * *

**Sorry for the shortness (again)! And for the cliffhanger ending...**

**Review, please! Reviews give us poor writers incentive to continue writing!! Oh, and Happy New Years to everyone!!!**

**DarkSp'rit**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey, its me again! **

**Disclaimer for the 4 lines of verse I used - I think its from somewhere, but I can't remember where. Is it enough to say I have no intention of reproducing afore-mentioned lyrics in any published document??**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter - and please review! Oh, and I posted the first chapter of another Phantom fanfic - please read/review it if you can be bothered...**

**Enjoy!**

**DarkSp'rit**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_Sing._

_Sing…_

"_Sing for the souls of the dead_

_Weep for the fallen light," _she sings, trying desperately to stop, but caught in the compulsion of the darkness she has wrought.

"_The dark wolf's cry through the realm is heard_

_Vengeance for the rise of the dark of night…"_

The music releases her, and she falls to her knees before the horror-struck audience.

* * *

_Later, one of the many ballet rats would sob to her sympathetic mother. In a moment of uncharacteristic eloquence, she describes the cause of her terror, choking out the words as she recalls._

"'_Twas a siren's call, mama – like the siren that Celine was meant to play but she didn't 'cause she felt sick – so beautiful – and yet, so cold, so…dead!"_

* * *

Brunette curls fluttering in her wake, the siren of the girl's memory flees the stage, pale hands covering an ashen white face.

"_I curse you."_

The cold, condemning words reverberate in her head.

_Curse indeed._

"Christine, calm down," a firm voice says, warm hands grip her shaking shoulders, and she realises with a start that she is crying, the heavy, choking sobs racking her body.

With one last, shuddering breath, she regains tentative control over herself – enough to ask the question she dreads the answer to.

"What did…_it_…sound like?" she asks in a hoarse whisper – she simply can't refer to _it _as anything else.

The Vicomte bites his lip.

"Christine, maybe you should take a moment to-""

"_No!" _she answers vehemently stomping her foot childishly. "In a moment, you would have formulated a…a _lie_, a meaningless string of forced comfort! I do not wish for a noble's response!"

Her tirade is broken abruptly as she replenishes her wasted air.

"After all," she continues, more softly, "I am hardly a delicate gentle-woman, to receive such gentle treatment."

The Vicomte almost flinches at the unspoken accusation. It is the first time she has mentioned that one glaring difference between them.

The dividing line.

"Very well." He can hardly refuse her the truth – nor begrudge her wish to know it.

"Your voi…_it_, rather" he still shares something with her – her denial of that _sound_ as her voice – "well, it was really quite beautiful, Christine, but…oh, must I continue?" Raoul beseeches her, only to have his appeal rejected immediately with a curt nod of her head.

"I don't believe I've ever heard anything so wonderful – or ever wished so for something to stop."

The words – even accompanied by tentative expression and gentle voice – are a slap in the face.

"In fact, it-" He stops once more.

"Yes?" she prompts dully, but he shakes his head.

"I can't say that, Christine – I _can't!"_

"Do you think me not mature enough, not strong enough to bear your opinion, _Vicomte_!?" she hisses, all remnants of her patience drained away.

Raoul sighs, giving in.

"It made me think of an angel's song, Christine," he explained, staring at the ground, "but an angel filled with…I don't know, really. Pain? Perhaps. Rage? Sorrow? But not the burning, _aliveness _of emotion. It was so cold, so…frozen…"

_I lied to her_, he thinks, still avoiding her relentless gaze.

He cannot tell her the truth – of how her voice had wrapped around its listeners, a web of agonising, torrential emotion. A malignant siren-call of hateful, harsh beauty. Frozen perfection.

He refuses to tell of the tears her voice caused to fall – of how three of the ballet girls were sent into a faint, others into uncontrollable hysterics.

_She does not need to know_.

Nevertheless, the Vicomte makes one last, supreme effort to fulfil her wish.

"You sang four lines, Christine – yet those four lines felt like eternity."

_An eternity of horror, a myriad of torment and despair._

"Aren't you fortunate then," she whispers viciously, "that I stopped?"

Angered by _her _anger, his head whips up – but his glare dies away at her expression, and he averts his gaze once more.

He hears her clear her throat.

"Raoul, I must tell you something."

"Yes?" comes his polite response.

"He cursed me, Raoul."

"What do you mean?" he asks, and Christine smiles twistedly.

"_He_ took my voice away – I dreamt that _he_ had cursed me, snatched my voice."

"He?"

She raises a weary eyebrow, and the Vicomte sighs.

"Christine, the Phantom is de-"

"And you killed him, I _know!_" she breaks in impatiently. "But explain _this_, then!"

Following the line of her slender finger to her throat, the Vicomte finds himself unable to answer.

They stand in uncomfortable silence for a long moment.

"Would you do me a favour?" Surprised that she broke the silence, he nods dumbly.

"I have to leave this place – before _he _takes anything else away from me. Will you come with me?"

He nods again – the question was not wholly unexpected – and she smiles, satisfied.

"I'll ask Meg to help me pack, then."

Christine walks away, slight spring in her step – leaving the Vicomte alone to his troubled thoughts.

* * *

Meg Giry pads wearily down the long, dim corridor to her room. Christine had only _just _– after almost 3 hours – finally dispensed of her services, leaving her own room hurriedly, belongings compressed tightly into a small suitcase.

"What a day…!" she groans, ankles throbbing painfully.

_Christine singing…_

_The brunette rushing to her and demanding assistance._

_A promise, extracted to not reveal her best friend's departure…_

The lamps flicker.

_Darkness_.

She halts.

"W-Who's there?!" she asks fearfully, reaching blindly out for the wall.

_Behind you._

She turns.

_Oh god._

Her scream echoes unheard through the deserted corridor.

* * *

**So how was it? (I think I ask this question every chapter)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry I haven't uploaded for so long! I was trying to work on "Phantom's Angel" but Ariel's character is a bit hard to write - so I gave up for the moment and wrote this chapter.**

**So enjoy, and reviews are appreciated - and thanks so much to DesireeBoils, TheMarshmaloWizardGhostCookie, Arcelia, IamthePhantomoftheOpera, hpnerd328, kdec and Chapucera for reviewing last chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

They are seated tensely next to each other, neither of them speaking. At a glance, they would seem to be the perfect couple – young, beautiful – with the girl's hand held tightly in her partner's.

However, on closer observation, the tension-filled, silent atmosphere around them, as well as the girl's apparent fascination with the window to the world outside the train – "Mark my words," an old, frail passerby says with the indulgent patronisation of the truly elderly, "those two aren't going to be married for much longer!"

An understandable misunderstanding – but a misunderstanding, nonetheless – Christine Daaé and Raoul de Chagny hadn't taken the trouble to marry before they left Paris; when one is attempting an escape, one does not let society's restrictions hamper the attempt.

"Christine…" Finally, Raoul speaks, more from necessity than any urge to inquire or express himself – for while his companion seems comfortable with silence, to him it is an oppressive blanket.

As if rising from a daze, she turns her head, looking at him with tired eyes.

"Yes?"

He searches frantically to find something to say.

"What will you do," he finally asks, "when we arrive?"

Christine shrugs.

"Unpack – what else?" She smiles slightly at his frown. "I don't know, Raoul. I can hardly sing," her smile fades at the memory, "so I'll have to find some other form of-"

"You could…" She stops at the sound of his soft voice, but he doesn't continue.

"Raoul?"

"You could marry me." The words come out in a rush; his face turning red with embarrassment, he turns away abruptly. Behind him, a soft sigh is heard.

"I can't."

"Why?" he asks, unable to completely abolish the resentment he is feeling from his tone.

_Silence_.

Raoul exhales heavily.

"Do you love me?" The silence is slightly regretful.

"No."

Though saddened by Christine's denial, he is not surprised.

"Do you hate me?" The pause this time is thoughtful.

"No…" she says finally, though he can hear from her tone that she is still considering, "no, I don't." The wonder in her tone as she says that nearly tears his heart apart.

Oblivious to his anguish, she clarifies her words.

"I mean, I don't dislike you; I just don't love you anymore…I _can't_…" Christine's voice cracks, and she turns away once more to gaze out of the window. Behind her, she hears him stand.

"Raoul?"

"I need a drink," he says coldly. She rolls her eyes as the door to their compartment slams shut. A smile touches her lips at that; but vanishes as soon as she notices its presence.

She shouldn't be smiling. She should be trying to think of some way out of this catastrophe.

_Perhaps I should move to Spain… _Christine thinks, _or perhaps I could return to Sweden…?_

The idea of returning to her homeland excites her. Oh, she would have to leave Raoul; but their ties now are nothing more than those of friendship and the memory of love.

Comforted and satisfied, she drifts to sleep.

Sighing, Raoul reluctantly turns to re-enter the interior of the train – to return to Christine. He pulls the cold handle of the door – and panic seizes him when it does not move.

Frantically tugging at the door, his dread grows as it refuses to yield to him – _what if he takes Christine? What if he _kills _her?!_

Finally, exhausted, he collapses.

It takes him some time to realise the presence of a "push" sign on the door.

"Oh god…" As he staggers to his feet, leaning against the door for support, he is barely able to stay upright in the grip of his hysterical laughter.

Pushing open the door, and entering the train interior, the laughter doesn't stop till he falls to the ground, unconscious.

She wakes to feel the presence of a wrongness. There is no sound, no movement, and the lighting which had illuminated the carriage with a false cheerfulness has vanished, cloaking the room in darkness.

Christine shivers.

_So cold…_

Only then does she notice the frost coating the window.

Reaching out with one trembling hand, she clears away the icy, view-obscuring screen.

_She was right._

The train stands still, on the outskirts of a vast, lonely, snow-coated plain.

Frozen by shock, she gazes unseeingly out of the window. Screwing her eyes shut, lip white from the pressure of her teeth, she sits, waiting.

_Footsteps._

The sound of the compartment door opening reaches her ear.

Light breathing underscores her own chest-wracking inhalations.

"_Well met, Mademoiselle Daaé_."

* * *

**Hmm...was that a cliffhanger...? I can't tell...**

**Anyway, thanks for making it this far - and please review - they give me incentive to write the next chapter faster!**

**DarkSp'rit**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**

**I haven't updated for a while - sorry?**

**There's nothing much I can say about this chapter, other than I hope you enjoy it.**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

His voice is just as she remembers; enchantingly musical, with the unmistakeable undertone of dark, dangerous seductiveness which she'd believed that she had finally escaped from.

"You're dead," she whispers – though even as the words take form, she wishes she had not spoken them. Dead or not, it does not matter.

_He is back…_

"_The dead do not speak,_" he answers simply.

She knows she should turn around to face him – she knows, but she can't.

She's too _scared_.

"_Come now, my dear," _he murmurs; and with a rush of cold, petrifying fear, she realises that he can read her thoughts. _"Surely you are not fearful of your _dear _angel?"_

Steeling herself, she stands. Closing her eyes, she slowly turns towards him.

Only when she has controlled her trembling as best as possible, do her eyes slowly open.

* * *

Slowly, painfully, he wakes.

For a moment – one terrifying moment – he can't see anything.

Then his sight becomes more focussed, and he realises that the fog blurring his vision is very real.

"What…?" he mutters, looking around in confusion.

The air is cold and dark, the fog making the carriage seem more like an open plain in the grips of winter than the interior of a train.

_Christine…_

As soon as her name rings in his mind, he realises who has done this.

"Shit…_Christine_!"

* * *

_He looks the same, really_, she notes in dull surprise.

"_What were you expecting, Christine? Rotting flesh? A skeleton? Of course," _he added sardonically, _"it wouldn't be much of a change – considering how I was in life._"

_How he was in life…_

"So you _are _dead?" she asks – more to distract herself, and avoid the dreadful moment when she will find out why he is haunting her, than for any real reason.

He raises an eyebrow.

"_Why, my dear, should _you _not know that? Did you not watch me die, after all? At the hands of your precious Vicomte?_"

His words are bait – and naïve to the end, she takes it.

"I didn't want you to die!" she suddenly screamed, goaded beyond endurance. "I told him not to kill you! I _cried_, god damn it, I _cried_!"

Tears start to roll down her pale cheeks, and he watches, face expressionless, as she tries to control herself.

"I _hated _him after that…" she says softly, sapphire eyes wide as she looks up at him, "I really, really did. I tried to bring you back, don't you remember? I tried to stop your bleeding, but I couldn't."

Face still blank, he regards her calmly.

"And then you _cursed _me! You took away everything you gave me – and I'd thought that, even if I had lost you, I would at least have my voice as a memory! But you didn't even let me keep it!"

Fresh sobs rack her slender frame, and once more she is forced to fight to regain control.

"I thought you _loved _me…" she finally whispers, sinking into the compartment seat.

A slender, cool hand caresses her cheek gently. At first she tenses; but then, soothed by the wordless song he is singing softly to her, she relaxes.

As his hand leaves her cheek to wander around the rest of her face; through her long, curly mess of hair, stroking the sensitive skin of her neck; he watches her carefully, knowing that it is possible that she could break free from the trance she is in.

Unlikely, but possible.

As she drifts to sleep, she hears one word echo through her mind.

"_Christine…_"

* * *

Gazing at her as she sinks further into sleep, he almost regrets that he was forced to break down her mind in such a way.

Of course, there would have been no other way to extract what he needed from her mind – but _still…_

Suddenly, he feels the presence of another human – not Christine, but another. Brow crinkling in confusion, he reaches out to the living soul he feels.

_Christine…monster…save her!...should be dead…_

His contact with the other's mind snaps, but he has heard enough.

_So the Vicomte persists… _he murmurs, turning to Christine. She barely stirs as he lifts her gently, merely sighing softly in her sleep.

_You will not interfere _this _time, Vicomte! _he growls, as the door opens and the Phantom vanishes.

* * *

"Christine!"

Raoul bursts into the compartment, just in time to hear the Phantom's words, and watch helplessly as the love of his life and the man he'd thought to have killed disappear.

* * *

**I didn't really know where to take it - so I hope its alright.**

**Review if you wish to - they give writers encouragement to keep writing, so yes...**

**I hope you enjoyed it, and happy Valentines Day!**


End file.
